This Late Night Habit
by Perdue
Summary: The world is coming to an end, and Ellis is sure he understands a love for which he would sacrifice anything. But when everything he thought was true is turned upside-down, he's forced to rethink what's truly important to him. El/Ro, Nick/El.
1. Hunger

This is a veeery late birthday present for **the-wizard-who-did-it**, though I suppose it is ongoing. I just felt bad for making her wait. So I'm splitting this thing into chapters. ~_~ Oh boy.

It'll probably be two chapters, maybe three if I'm lucky. Enjoy!

**Warnings**: Language, dubious consent. Angst. T_T

**Disclaimer**: These characters do not belong to me.

**This Late Night Habit  
**_Hunger_

Her shirt was bloodstained, the greasiness of her hair beginning to show despite how much she tried to hide it by keeping it in a ponytail. But Ellis didn't care. She was beautiful.

What Ellis saw when he looked at Rochelle was innate strength. She wasn't like other girls. When the zombies started attacking, she did not hesitate in asking about guns and how to use them. In a matter of twenty minutes, she could load and fire a pistol with startling accuracy. As they moved across the worsening South, he taught her about machine guns and assault rifles and snipers, and she took to it as any other woman might take to shopping or cell phones.

As their time together increased, Ellis noticed other things about her. She was naturally inquisitive; she had a no bullshit attitude that had saved all of their lives more than once. And despite this—despite her typically serious manner—she was so gracious, so caring. Whenever they all got in over their heads, even if she herself was badly wounded, she would make sure Ellis was properly treated until she thought about anything else. She called him "Ellis, sweetie," and she looked him in the eyes and told him everything was going to be okay. It didn't take long until Ellis was certain that he loved her more than anything.

However, he was acutely aware that he was not the only one whose eyes followed her. Every few days when she went off to attempt to keep some extent of personal hygiene, Nick would watch her ass as she left and would murmur something like, "Damn, what I wouldn't give to get me a piece of that." Perhaps it was because Ellis was so much younger than the others, but Nick seemed convinced that he would love to ogle over Rochelle with him, to share in his sexual, bestial desires. Ellis said nothing when Nick mentioned the nice shape of her tits, or wondered aloud how tight she was, how much he wanted to make her scream. It disgusted Ellis, but they all needed Nick to survive. Getting rid of him would definitely be detrimental to keeping Rochelle alive.

More than anything, he wished he could show Nick just how important and deserving of chivalry she was. He wished so much that Rochelle could see how beautiful she was, and how much he truly loved her.

* * *

It was nighttime and there were no safe houses nearby, so Coach scouted out an abandoned house, and they all helped set traps by the doors and available windows. It wouldn't keep a hoard out, but it would at least warn them of any unwanted visitors.

"We should all sleep in the same room. Safer," Ellis said, glancing shyly at Rochelle.

Nick stared at Ellis for a moment, then gave Rochelle a long, hungry glance, and replied, "Come on, Ellis. We got an actual house with separate rooms to sleep in for once. Don't you want a little privacy?" He removed his jacket and winked at Ellis before turning away. "Rochelle, honey, what's left to eat?"

"Just a bunch of old canned food. I gave the bag to Coach, take it up with him. I for one am exhausted." She yawned to accentuate her point and turned to the first bedroom. "Wake me if there's any trouble."

Ellis swallowed and watched her go with an ache in his chest. Even if there was trouble, he wouldn't wake her. He would do anything to keep her safe.

* * *

Since they had found each other in the post-apocalyptic world—since they had all spent so much time together—Ellis had been able to pick up on and understand many of his companions' habits and mannerisms.

Coach, during down time, tended to gaze at the ring on his finger with love and longing; he was married and had lived with his wife in Savannah for more than twenty years. He had a tendency to give the last of his meals to Ellis, and whenever Ellis had trouble patching himself up, Coach was there to lend a helping hand; his wife and Ellis' mother had known each other, and perhaps because he and his wife had been unable to have children of their own, Coach couldn't help but think of Ellis as a sort of son.

Rochelle was headstrong and tended to be a little bossy at times; after being stuck as assistant to a low-end producer for so long, the change of scenery gave her an insecure confidence—a leadership she needed to compensate for being degraded and under-appreciated in the previously uninfected world. She took to Ellis quickly and always without fail addressed him with her best manners; Ellis did, after all, give her all the respect and admiration for which she had always pined.

Nick had a smug façade of snarky remarks and pessimistic sarcasm, but Ellis knew there were feelings he harbored to which he would never admit; as a man in the business of screwing people over, he had inevitably been screwed over several times himself. He treated Ellis like a true pal, saw him as a free young spirit on whom he could rely; several pieces of Nick's past tended to go unsaid, but Ellis was sure that enough corrupt people had ruined Nick's life that the conman could truly appreciate Ellis' frank innocence.

* * *

Footsteps were significant to Ellis.

The sound of footsteps was often one of the only things you could use to distinguish friend from foe, especially at night when it was impossible to trust sight alone. Fortunately, for the most part the footsteps of the infected tended to be pretty distinctive—they were without fail staggering, drunk on bloodlust most likely, unless they were running. When they were running, they were frighteningly accurate, and if there was a lot of them at one time, and you were running _from _them, it sounded like a thunder storm chasing you. Ellis shivered at even the thought of it. He knew too well what it felt like.

Knowing the footsteps of your own teammates was important, because if you couldn't tell them apart from the things you intended to kill, the people you cared about would end up dead. It only took him a week to memorize them all. Because Coach had a bad knee, every other step was heavy with most of his weight. Rochelle's steps were light and ever-so-cautious after years of stepping around an irritable boss. Nick was the only one who ever changed. Usually he walked casually, occasionally with a little swagger if he was in one of his moods and wanted Rochelle to notice him. However, at night when his façade was let down and he approached Ellis thinking Ellis was asleep, his steps were quiet, considerate. Ellis never questioned Nick's late-night habit of checking on him. If Nick needed the reassurance that Ellis was alright, then far be it from him to put him on the spot about it.

* * *

It had been several hours since Rochelle went to bed. Ellis stayed up to do his shift of standing watch while Coach and Nick eventually followed Rochelle's example. Midnight rolled around and Ellis kept his eyes on the front door he had boarded up until he heard the slightly heavy, casual footsteps of Nick. Ellis waited to hear the bathroom door open but never did. Nick passed the bathroom, and Ellis felt sick to his stomach as the realization struck him: Nick's destination was Rochelle's room.

Ellis figured a man like Nick was used to screwing women on a regular basis. An apocalypse wasn't exactly conducive to that sort of behavior, and of course Nick had his needs. But taking advantage of Rochelle?

Ellis wouldn't allow it.

Swiftly and silently, Ellis rose from his chair and ran to stand in front of the hall leading to Rochelle's room just as Nick was about to walk through. Nick stopped short, and Ellis looked him desperately in the eyes.

"I know whatcha want, but you can't get it from her," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Nick watched him with vague surprise, but was clearly distracted. His face was glistening in the pale light, the moon shining from a window above them, revealing his perspiration and faintly flushed cheeks. Ellis didn't have to look to know there was a bulge in his pants.

"Ellis, you're gonna have to move aside," he said quietly. "Ro and I have some business to attend to."

He grabbed Ellis' arm when the boy refused to move, but Ellis merely pushed him back. Nick's brows furrowed and he glowered at Ellis. "I don't wanna have to ask you again," he said. When Ellis didn't move, he grabbed the front of his shirt, and Ellis felt his heels leave the floor. He couldn't fight Nick, not now, not when he was angry. Ellis didn't doubt that he could do plenty of damage, but fighting Nick posed the risk of not just waking up Coach and Rochelle, but attracting the infected.

Hadn't Ellis promised to always make sure Rochelle was safe? He couldn't just let Nick walk in there and do whatever the hell he wanted. But what could he do? If he wasn't going to _fight_ Nick, how could he make Nick stop?

In a moment of desperation and ultimately seeing no other option, Ellis grabbed at Nick's shirt before the conman could toss him to the ground. "Nick, please…" he murmured. Swallowing his fear and doing his best to embrace the course of action he must take, he looked Nick in the eyes and said quietly, "If you gotta do this... M-Me. Do it to me, not her."

The conman stared at him in vague shock, as if the words were barely registering, and without giving himself time to think, Ellis leaned in, his feet still dangling, and kissed Nick on the mouth. He tasted like liquor, and when Ellis opened his eyes, Nick's were already open, bloodshot, and staring into his. He broke the kiss and his grip on Ellis' shirt tightened. His lips were quivering and his eyes were piercing, but they lacked the sharpness of anger.

"You're an idiot," he growled. Ellis didn't know if that was a no or a yes, so he kissed him again, lips barely touching, and whispered, "Please," so desperately that he surprised even himself.

Finally Nick dropped him and pushed him away before saying quietly without looking at him, "Go to my room and get undressed."

Ellis shivered and nodded and did as he was told. It wasn't until he was down to his boxers and sitting alone on the edge of Nick's bed, shaking with fear at what he was going to do, that the thought crossed his mind that Nick had just played him for a fool—tricked him, lied as he might have with cards once upon a time. Ellis should have known. Nick wanted to fuck a _woman_, so why in hell would he settle for Ellis?

He stood, recklessly prepared to barge into Rochelle's room to get Nick the hell away from her, when the conman himself opened the door and walked in, a small tube in his hand and a frown on his lips.

"Get on the bed."

Ellis could sense that he was irritated and without thinking hurried to comply. Nick undressed slowly, sloppy, watching Ellis as he did so. Ellis' stomach felt tight, his chest constricted. Nick's briefs finally fell to the floor, and Ellis tried to swallow the bile climbing up his throat from sheer nervousness and faint disgust.

"On your knees." The command was unbearably quiet, and Ellis wanted to cry, but he did it anyways. The bed creaked as Nick's weight was added to it, and rough hands found their way to Ellis' hips. They moved clumsily over his thighs and buttocks, though not out of inexperience. In the time it had taken Nick to find that tube (of lubricant, Ellis figured), he had also apparently found more alcohol. His breath smelled heavily of vodka, and he left small shot kisses down Ellis' back as his hands found the hem of his boxers and pulled them down to rest at his knees. Something inside him screamed in apprehension even before he felt Nick's erection against him, and he bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed just to stifle his discomfort.

Nick forced his way inside, breaking any resistance, his pelvis bouncing against Ellis' backside. Inconsiderate, there was no time for Ellis to even try to adjust before Nick was pounding into him, a drunken rhythm that ignited pain into every muscle, every nerve. He tried to fight it, but it _hurt_, worse than being torn at by the infected, worse than being pummeled and burned and hanged. Those were all things Ellis could relate to the elation of the fight; that strange feeling of being the most alive when so close to death. Kill or be killed. It's the fucking apocalypse, and the future be damned if he's not going to enjoy himself while he can. But here Nick was violating him; Ellis may have consented, but this was too much. He tried to think of Rochelle, but he didn't want the image he held of her underneath his eyelids to be connected to any sort of pain. It was better to know that he was doing this to save her and bear the burden alone.

Nick grunted and pushed and Ellis was sure he would split open. But agonizingly enough he stayed in one piece, experiencing every little movement of Nick's hips and hands with complete consciousness. It hurt, it hurt. Tears finally fell from his eyes and he let out a gasping sob, filled with nothing but pain and conflicted shame. Nick ejaculated and pulled out and Ellis fell to the bed.

"Ellis, are you okay?" Ellis only cried, quietly. Nick's voice was faint, though from his own pain or something else Ellis was unsure. He tried to block it out.

"El?" It didn't take long for Ellis to succumb to the raw aching all over his body, and his pillow was wet before he fell into his exhaustion, restlessly sleeping though the tears still fell.

"E-Ellis, talk to me."

_Wind in time  
Rapes the flower trembling on the vine  
Nothing yields to shelter it  
_Fear, Sarah McLachlan


	2. Determination

This chapter looks more deeply into the reasons for Ellis doing what he's doing.

**Warnings: **Very light language, angst.

**Disclaimer: **Not my characters, yo.

Plates and glasses clinked in the morning light, and somewhere between the haze of sleep and consciousness Ellis imagined he was laying in his bed, his mother preparing breakfast as she always had. It seemed like forever ago. But for now, Ellis could convince himself of this warmth, could feel safe, could know that any moment now, mom was going to knock on his door and say—

"Ellis, sweetie, you awake?"

His eyes opened slowly, and there was the cracked, old, off-white ceiling, but it wasn't his. Nothing was really his anymore.

"Oh good, you _are _awake," Rochelle said. She was standing somewhere behind him. "I'm throwing something together for breakfast if you're interested. Just watch out," she added, her voice lowering, "I think Coach is pissed that you never woke anyone else to stand watch." She giggled and Ellis could see her fingers as they brushed his bangs back before she retreated to the kitchen.

Ellis was lying down on the couch, his arms crossed over his stomach. His clothes had been replaced, and besides the fact that he was a little more drowsy than usual, nothing felt different. However, when he sighed and made to get up, it was there; the pain had caught up with him. It was duller now, but there was still that incessant aching. He tried to ignore it and sat up, which only made it worse.

Determination was really the only thing that could induce him to stand, and he grabbed his hat from the arm of the couch before walking to the kitchen. Rochelle was alone, rummaging through the drawers, probably looking for a can opener. The table was set for four, and Ellis' mouth hung open when he saw that the plates were covered in a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables—tomatoes and apples and corn and peas and pears and God knew what else. He stood speechless until Rochelle finally turned around and smiled at him.

"Amazing, ain't it? Who would have imagined there'd be a garden in the back yard of this place?" She put her hands on her hips—a can opener was in one of them—and looked out the French double doors. Even out the windows you could see the area surrounding the door was lined with land mines, though the infected wouldn't have noticed if they felt the urge to run through the yard towards the house. But Rochelle wasn't looking at the ground. She was looking at the sky, that eternal expanse of bright blue. "It kinda reminds you that there's always hope," she said softly. "Those vegetables kept growing even after everyone became infected, and when they die their seeds will replant the ground and new ones will grow. Makes you think, maybe everything that dies is reborn somehow—it all just depends on how you look at it."

A moment of silence passed and she seemed to remember what she had been doing, for she shot Ellis a quick smile before turning back to the counter with her can opener. "I think Coach was taking a shower. Can you believe we actually got running water and everything? Nick hasn't come out of his room yet. Told me to go away when I went to wake him up. I guess he's in one of his moods." She paused, put down the can she'd been working on. It looked as though something in her was registering, and finally she turned around to look at Ellis. "Honey, what's wrong? You ain't said a thing since you woke up, and you're pale."

Rochelle stopped talking when Ellis looked up to meet her gaze. There were tears in his eyes, and he bit them back, hating that for a moment she looked absolutely horrified, but when his gaze averted from hers he couldn't help himself. The tears spilled over and he shut his eyes tightly as a short sob escaped him.

Only a moment went by before Rochelle walked over to him, and she did not hesitate in putting an arm around his neck and the other pressed to the back of his head, pulling his face to her shoulder. His hat fell to the floor as he wrapped his arms around her waist, his inhale shuddering and his exhale another quiet sob, crying in her arms like a child.

* * *

"Where's Pa?"

It was dusk, and mother's face was blotchy with already shed tears. Ten-year-old Ellis hung at the door, clinging to its frame as he watched mother sit at the edge of her and father's bed, crying. The child looked away after a moment; watching mother cry felt like watching an angel bleed.

"Momma…"

She sobbed loudly and put her face in her hands. Ellis moved away from the door frame and snuck over to her, placing a tentative hand on her knee. "Momma?" Finally she wiped at the tears on her cheeks and placed a hand on Ellis' head, fingers sifting through his hair, and looked him in the eyes. Her eyelashes were wet.

"Sweetie," she murmured, her voice cracking. "Papa ain't… Papa ain't gonna be coming home no more." Ellis' grip on her knee tightened, and his head pushed against her hand.

"Is Pa dead?"

Mother almost laughed at that. "No, El. He ain't dead." Her eyes grew solemn, and the hand that had been stroking Ellis' hair fell to her lap. "He ain't dead." Ellis grabbed her hand.

"Then why ain't he comin' back?" She burst into tears again, and Ellis himself felt on the verge of crying. "Momma, why ain't he comin' back?"

"He's – Papa's leavin' me. He's leavin' us, darlin'. I think his love for me has 'bout run out." Ellis looked her in the eyes, unaware that the image of his broken, sobbing mother would haunt him for the next thirteen years.

"Don't he love me no more?"

Mother pulled Ellis to her, wrapped him safely in her arms. She never answered.

* * *

"What's goin' on?"

The sound of Coach's voice was the trigger to separate them, and while Ellis went to wiping his eyes, his back to Coach, Rochelle faced him. "Ellis is feeling a little sad is all." Coach looked a little incredulous.

"We _are _talking about the same Ellis, ain't we? This is the boy who was ecstatic about running across a zombie-infested rollercoaster." His tone had been pleasant, but no one spoke, so Coach continued. "Look, Ellis… I'm sorry you ain't feeling well, but what happened last night cannot happen again." Ellis tensed. If Coach or Rochelle noticed, they didn't mention it. "I get that you were tired—we all were. But if someone isn't watching out when we aren't in a safe house, and if something happens, by the time anyone comes to their senses it could be too late. D'you understand, Ellis?"

Ellis didn't turn around, instead muttering to the cupboards, "Yeah."

Coach made an indignant sound. Rochelle quickly cut in. "Coach, just let it go. He made a mistake, it won't happen again. Now Ellis, sweetie, why don't you go take a shower and I'll save a plate for you. Okay?" Their eyes met and she gave him a sympathetic smile. He sighed.

"Okay."

Coach moved away from the door so that Ellis could leave, and as he walked through the living room he could hear them whispering to each other. Ellis might have expected it; he'd never cried in front of his teammates before, not about losing his mother or being in pain or anything, really. Naturally they would wonder what had caused it.

He reached for the bathroom doorknob, but it opened from the inside, and suddenly Nick was standing before him. Ellis tried to step back, but Nick already had a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to deliberate for a moment before saying quietly, "You've been crying. Are you in pain?" Ellis brushed him off, pulling his shoulder free.

"That ain't none of your business," he muttered. Nick's other hand pressed against the side of Ellis' face, not unkindly, forcing the young man to look at him. Nick's eyes were horribly serious.

"I fucked up, Ellis. I was drunk and horny and I didn't realize you were a virgin when you told me to—"

Nick was cut off by Ellis' fist pounding against his left cheek. He stumbled back into the bathroom and knocked into something before righting himself and staring at Ellis in faint shock. Ellis refused to look at him.

"I'm gonna take a shower now if that's aight with you," he said softly. Blood began to ooze from the new cut on Nick's cheek, and he stared at Ellis a moment longer before seeming to come to his senses.

"Yeah," he said equally softly. He walked out of the bathroom and Ellis walked in, the door slamming behind him. Moments later he could hear Coach's and Rochelle's voices outside.

"We heard something crash, is everything okay?"

"Oh my God, Nick, what happened? Did Ellis do that to you?"

"Don't bother him about it. I'm the one who provoked him. It's my fault."

* * *

Ellis had been ten years old when his father left; too young to quite understand what would compel his own pa to abandon his mother and him, but certainly old enough to feel anger. Dust scattered into the air, Ellis' bare feet pounding against the dirt road that led from his home, running to God knew where. Cries of, "_Ellis! Come back!_" went to the wind. Mother chased him, but she would stop soon enough. Ellis was determined, tireless, and mother was already slowing down, age hindering her in ways Ellis had yet to experience.

He didn't know where father had gone, only that he had to find him, make him pay for making mother cry. The sun hit zenith, and there were no clouds, nothing to keep the heat from pouring down the back of Ellis' neck. Lone houses, barns went by, trailer parks and backwater shacks. Ellis kept running. Eventually the sun sunk further towards the west and Ellis pushed his small legs, panting short, hot gasps as he told himself town was just up ahead, and he would find father and fucking _kill _him if he had to. But he had pushed himself too far past his limit, and he finally stumbled and fell to the ground.

Perspiration soaked into the dirt and he breathed harshly against the ground, inhaling dust. There was stinging in his eyes, his nose, his throat, and he choked saliva, his skin burning on contact with the hot ground while his determination burned hotter. He tried to get his knee up under his stomach so that he could gain the leverage to stand, but his body stiffened and he gave a muffled cry of pain before again going limp. The ground at his feet was stained burgundy with the blood of raw sores and cuts.

Footsteps could be heard from far away, coming closer. They were running towards him. Ellis didn't know what was more embarrassing—that he had fallen, or that he was too exhausted to get up. Finally the footsteps stopped right next to him. A boy spoke.

"Hey, there y'are." Suddenly Ellis was being pushed onto his back, and he was greeted by a shock of red hair and a buck toothed grin. "You done killed yerself running, and you ain't wearin' no shoes er nothin'! You must be crazy!" The boy's grin widened. "I gotta say, you and me's gonna make some great friends."

Ellis choked on dust and surprise and said, "Who're you?"

"Why, I'm Keith!" said the boy. "Damn, you's sure fast, I could barely catch ya. You got a name?"

"I'm Ellis."

"Well howdy, Ellis! I sure am glad I caught you. But why're you runnin' so much? Yer feet look like you been runnin' all dang day!" Ellis tried not to think about how much his feet hurt.

"I'm try'na find my pa," he growled. "He ran away. Wouldn' even tell me his own self. He's a damn coward."

"Is that so?" asked Keith. After a pause he said, "You got a ma?"

"O' course!" Ellis replied indignantly.

"Where is she?"

Ellis' eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "I reckon she's back at home, prob'ly, if she ain't lookin' for me." Keith smiled serenely, completely unlike his thus far foolish grin.

"If your pa ran off, why're you wastin' energy on 'im? Sounds like your ma must be mighty worried 'bout you." Ellis stared at him, speechless and too aware of how Keith kneeled next to him, one elbow resting on his own thigh and the other hand gently touching Ellis' arm. "After all, the only thing that really matters is protectin' what's important. Don'tcha think?"

Several seconds passed and Ellis thought he might cry. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yer right."

* * *

Here, stripped of everything, Ellis could let go—could be free to search himself of the damage done the night before.

The showerhead was old and the water pressure was shit, but Ellis didn't take notice. His hands ran through his hair before moving to his chest. Nick hadn't touched him very much, which everything considered wasn't much of a surprise. Ellis' hands drifted down, fingertips gracing over his now wet hips, bruised with careless fingernail indents. He cringed, but those were the least of his problems.

His hands moved cautiously to his buttocks. The skin there was unusually smooth and tender, and when he applied pressure, he gritted his teeth. It was bruised there, too. He closed his eyes and turned around so that the spray was hitting his chest. The warm water felt good, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest so that the water would pool there. He didn't want to have to think about what he really needed to check.

Perhaps it wasn't necessary, but he had to know—some sick, masochistic sort of curiosity. His arms moved from his chest and the water splashed to the tub; one hand went to the wall, the other inching shyly back to his ass, past the fold and fumbling to where it hurt the most. The tip of his finger grazed against the sphincter, and his mind went reeling from the pain that shot right through him, his insides aching horribly—surprising for such a small wound.

It was strange and frightening to think that Ellis had never touched himself there before, had never even thought of it. He brought his hand away and held it in front of his eyes; there was a mixture of red and white staining his fingertip, blood and semen. Nick had done this to him; Nick had hurt him and really fucking _enjoyed _it. And Ellis had let him. He would be scared of the fact if there wasn't something that terrified him even more:

He would let Nick do it to him again if it meant saving Rochelle.

_If you keep asking me  
I'll melt away in the summer air  
It won't hurt half as much  
And I'll beg for you to stop it now  
_I Can Tell, Saosin


	3. Steady

Omg it's taken me a year to write three chapters. This is so sad. So very, very sad. (Happy birthday again, **the-wizard-who-did-it**!) Anyways, I have some things about this chapter I wanted to note, but I'll do that at the end.

**Warnings: **Not much happens that requires warning. Bad language?

**Disclaimer: **I have no rights to the L4D2 characters.

**This Late Night Habit  
**_Steady_

The streets were mostly empty when they departed. The few infected that were stumbling around noticed them after a few moments and began to drag themselves in the survivors' direction, shrieking and growling with blood dripping from their mouths. Everyone paused, but Ellis made no move and finally when the closest infected was only yards away Rochelle took it out with her pistol and did not hesitate in silencing the other three. She gave Ellis a curious look which he chose to ignore. Yes, he was usually the one eager to make the morning's first kill, and yes, he still wasn't saying much despite being the most talkative person any of them had ever met. Unfortunately for them, he was feeling much too contrary to care.

They were about twelve miles outside of Slidell. Evacuation in Savannah had been a disaster, and the best lead they had was to head for New Orleans, which, according to the graffiti on the walls of several safe houses, was a militarized safe zone, free from infection. Nick had been pessimistic enough to remind them that all of the "militarized safe zones" they had encountered so far had been overrun with infected and completely deserted of human life. Though Coach and Rochelle had shot him dirty looks (and Nick _did _apologize, more because of Ellis' crestfallen expression than their exasperation), they all quietly knew that Nick was right; the chances of the military being in New Orleans was low at best. It wasn't quite the prospect of safety that drove them. They knew deep down that there was no such thing as safety, not anymore. The reason they steadily pushed on for New Orleans was to fill the void of purposeless existence. As long as they tried, they could half-hope that something might turn out right.

"We should be gettin' up on the border soon. It's right outside Pearlington," Coach finally said, and though no one answered, they all felt the relief of knowing that their adventure would soon be over. "But y'all best remember," he went on with a warning tone, "that just inside the border is that wildlife conservation area or whatever big name they gave it. What I mean is that for a few miles we're gonna be surrounded by nothin' but swamp and jungle, and make no mistake, there ain't gonna be no safe houses and likely ain't gonna be much spare ammo layin' around or nothin'. Whatever we need, we grab it now while we're still in town, got it?"

Rochelle gave a soft, "Yeah," and Nick grunted his acknowledgment. Ellis said nothing, and Coach didn't fail to notice. Everyone halted in the intersection where he decidedly turned around to face Ellis and look him over for a few moments before reaching into his pocket and taking out a small bottle of pills which he threw to the mechanic. Ellis caught them reflexively, but immediately threw them back.

"Don't want 'em?" Coach asked.

"Don't need 'em," Ellis replied. He wouldn't meet Coach's gaze.

"Ya sure about that, boy? You're lookin' pale."

Rochelle's eyebrows twitched, and her expression became deeply concerned. Nick, for that matter, was also uncharacteristically silent, half-heartedly watching the street for any unwanted visitors.

"You don't think you're getting sick, do you?" Rochelle asked suddenly, and the weight of that question, all of its connotations, was certainly not lost on Ellis. Sick was just a step away from infection, and they'd all seen the news before hell completely broke loose; how it had started with a strange new strain of fever, and the next thing everyone knew there was a goddamned apocalypse.

"I ain't sick!" Ellis said forcefully, and he glanced unwittingly at Nick who looked up to meet his gaze. But Ellis looked away and repeated more softly, "I ain't sick." Several silent moments passed, and Coach watched Ellis thoughtfully as Rochelle's confused gaze went slowly back and forth between Ellis and Nick, until finally, impatient, Ellis said, "Aight, are we goin' or ain't we?"

Another moment and then Coach nodded. "Yeah, we best be gettin' outta here. Y'all are fine on ammo? No one's missin' a health kit?"

Murmured affirmations followed and the survivors headed down highway 604, passing through the intersection and trying to ignore the burned down fire station on their right.

* * *

Interstate 90 was nothing but swampy tall grass and rivers, humid air under an infinite blue sky. Ellis could feel the sweat drip down his neck and the heat cling to his skin and severe shots of pain ride up the nerves in his hips. Nothing had ever hurt so much, or been so goddamn _uncomfortable_, probably because he had never before experienced physical pain that couldn't be mended with a health kit, let alone that he couldn't tell anyone about.

He glanced at Nick; the heat had induced him to take off his jacket, and heavy perspiration stained the pits and back of his cerulean dress shirt a darker shade of blue. His disgruntled face was flushed, but he didn't complain as he would on any other occasion, and he was certainly giving Ellis plenty more space than usual. Coach and Rochelle might have been wondering at his sudden introversion, but Ellis knew exactly why he was keeping to himself.

Ellis removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow, and a drip of it fell from his bangs before replacing the hat on his head. Somehow he felt a small, fluttering pang of satisfaction to know that Nick felt enough regret to intentionally isolate himself when in any other instance he would gladly gripe about the heat or the plain scenery or how disgusting he felt with his shirt and pants sticking to his skin.

However, there wasn't much time to bask in Nick's unhappiness, because they all froze in mutual horror when the ground began to quiver beneath their feet, that unmistakable growling off in the distance.

"Tank!" Rochelle shouted, and the four of them instinctively came closer, backs to one another, each searching the horizon for any sign of the monster.

"There," Ellis said calmly, his voice nearly drowned out from the rumbling of the concrete. He pointed south into the swamp, and there it was, its bulky form coming into view over the tall grass.

"We should run," Rochelle said quickly.

"It'll just catch up with us," Nick interjected, and though his tone was angry, they could all hear the subtle trembling fear.

"We'll die if we fight it here!" Rochelle cried, hysterical.

"Well maybe if you'd shut the hell up it wouldn't notice us!"

"Guys!" They both looked at Ellis. "Don' worry, guys. It's gonna be okay." He reached hastily back into his pack and pulled out a molotov. They all stared at him in silent awe.

"Where'd you get that?" Rochelle finally asked.

Ellis shrugged, and with a meaningful glance towards Nick, replied, "There were lotsa empty bottles jus' layin' 'round that house we stayed at. Wasn't too hard to whip this one up 'fore we left."

A great roar disrupted him, and suddenly the tank was upon them, its inhuman muscles flexing as it reached back and brought its fist forward, slamming Coach into the blockade on the other side of the highway. It rounded on Rochelle next, and she ran backwards, unloading bullets into it, but none of them seemed to penetrate its thick skin, and finally it was close enough and pounded against her small frame with its large hand, unwittingly knocking her assault rifle over the blockade and into the swamp. She screamed, and Ellis froze, eyes wide in consternation.

"Overalls!"

The mechanic jumped at being addressed, and looked over to see Nick staring at him, frazzled and distressed. "The molotov!" the conman added hastily, helplessly gesticulating at the tank until the young man came to his senses and pulled the lighter out of his pocket.

Meanwhile Coach had gotten back to his feet, and both he and Nick turned on the tank, shooting its back so that it would get distracted from pummeling Rochelle and turn on them instead, hurdling towards them on all fours. "Ellis, hurry!" He heard Nick's alarmed voice and realized belatedly that Rochelle was out of harm's way now, though his eyes hadn't left her. He fumbled to light the cloth tied to the end of the vodka bottle filled with gasoline. "Now!"

With a short cry, Ellis threw the molotov at the tank, and felt his heart drop into his stomach when it soared over the monster's hulking shoulders and burst into flames on the ground behind it.

"Shit," he hissed, drowned out by the roar of the tank. He reached for his shotgun as the horrendous infected knocked Coach and Nick out of the way so easily they could have been inanimate objects, and next thing he knew the tank was rounding on him. "Shit, shit!" he shouted, running backwards and shooting it, once, twice, three, four times…

As if Fate herself had felt pity for him, the tank suddenly fell to its knees, and Ellis breathed a harsh sigh of relief, stumbling back a few more feet. But almost as a reminder to his situation, when gravity called the tank's unnatural torso to the ground, its large arm flailed out and hit Ellis in the leg, causing his knee to buckle and his balance to abandon him for the moment until he tripped, landing on his backside. The absolute pain that ripped through his body forced a hoarse cry from his throat, and he immediately rolled onto his side, not minding the concrete burning his arm as long as the pressure was off his unfortunate bruises. In the distance, he could vaguely hear Nick and Coach shouting, but his head was whirling and he couldn't quite discern the meaning of their words. All that stuck out to him was that his name had been called out, and that Rochelle was dying.

The world was drained of hope, and it had been a long time since Ellis had felt so helpless. He struggled to get up, fighting the pain of last night's decision, when Coach stumbled to his side, blood and worry painting his face. "Ellis, what happened, did it—"

"Ro," he interrupted, and Coach's hand steadied him as he sat up, cringing from the pressure on his ass. "Ro, where's Ro—" he said, tone laced with hysteria, and looking further down the road, he saw her lying motionless, Nick kneeling over her with his health kit open and resting on the ground next to his knees.

Ignoring Coach's weary words ("Ellis, you shouldn' be gettin' up. What's hurtin'? Did the tank getcha? …Why ain'tcha bleedin', you ain't got a scratch on ya…"), Ellis slowly got to his feet and stumbled blindly to Rochelle where he fell to his knees beside her.

"Rochelle," he screeched, hands finding her shoulders and wanting to shake before realizing that his hands were covered with blood just from touching her momentarily. She was still conscious, eyes open and staring jadedly at Ellis. "Oh God, oh shit—"

"Hey!" Ellis looked up hysterically to see Nick glaring at him. There was blood running down his face from a cut somewhere behind his hairline. "Get the hell out of my way if you want her to heal! Since you don't seem to be hurt, why don't you go take care of Coach? Or did you not notice, that goddamned tank hit him against a fucking blockade!"

Ellis swallowed and nodded and hesitantly backed away on his hands and knees before standing and stumbling back to Coach, who was sitting on the burning concrete, already working on his own cuts.

* * *

Even after Nick's ministrations Rochelle was still much too weak to walk; she had lost a lot of blood, her leg was probably broken, and she certainly had broken ribs. The sun was beating down hard as Nick helped lift her onto Ellis' back.

"Y'alright, Ro?" Ellis asked softly, but her answer couldn't be heard over the sound of someone stumbling to the ground.

"Woah," he heard Nick say behind him, and turned. Coach was bent over on the cement, one hand steadying him and the other holding his head. Nick was kneeling next to him, a hand on his shoulder. "Hey Coach, what's going on?"

"Everythin' alright?" Ellis asked.

"Sorry, y'all," Coach murmured. "I musta hit my head on the blockade. I'm jus' a li'l dazed, is all."

"Where are those pills you had this morning?" Nick asked, slowly helping the other man to his feet. "A few of those should pick you up enough to get to Slidell." The conman looked up as Coach reached into his pocket and took out the bottle, and his eyes met Ellis' briefly. Ellis looked away and steadied his hold on Rochelle before continuing to walk forward in what was once upon a time the wrong lane.

* * *

The highway split off to the right, interstate 190. Ellis had lain Rochelle down gently on the grass so that he, Nick, and Coach could determine where to go from there. She told him he better leave a pistol with her so she could cover their asses. Ellis placed the gun in her hand and held it for a few moments, and his heart swelled painfully when, despite everything, she grinned.

"If we keep on interstate 90, we can get to New Orleans quicker. It's all back roads, and it's pretty much a straight shot," Coach said, looking at the map he'd pulled from his bag.

"We can't do that," Ellis said hastily, and Coach and Nick looked at him questioningly. "We gotta get Rochelle to a hospital! She's gonna, well…" He trailed off, and consciously lowered his voice. "She's real bad, y'all. If we don' find some real medical supplies soon, she might not –"

Ellis found he was unable to finish that sentence, couldn't bring himself to say what may have become the inevitable. Rochelle couldn't walk, could barely _breathe_… Even if the survivors could somehow get her leg in a cast, there was nothing they could do about the broken ribs, and they certainly could never stay in one place long enough for her to heal to functional state.

He half-expected Nick to fight him on his plan to take interstate 190 to Slidell and find a hospital. After all, hospitals were one of the few places that they avoided as much as possible, that and churches. Too many people rushed to those places when infection first struck, expecting to find safe havens from the chaos of the infected world; but that had not lasted. Ironically, they were now the most dangerous places to be found.

Nevertheless, the equation came down to keeping on the road that would result in Rochelle's demise, or try to find the supplies that would help her. Ellis was prepared to tell Nick and Coach that he would leave them to go to Slidell; if that meant his death as well, then at least he knew he'd done right by Rochelle.

To his surprise, Nick nodded, almost in resignation. "Okay," he said simply and wearily. Ellis released the shaky breath he realized he'd been holding.

Coach's brows furrowed with concern. "Are y'all sure about that? We might not make it through Slidell alive."

Nick shrugged and the steady gaze he'd been aiming at Ellis suddenly found the sky. "What makes you think we'll survive through New Orleans?"

_I'm gonna go out, fire it up, honey  
Gonna turn back time  
I'm gonna save your life  
_Part II: Tonight's the Night, Ludo

I really struggled with the title for this chapter, but in the end, I think "Steady" was a good choice. Throughout the chapter, Ellis is forced to present the illusion of steadiness despite the pain he is experiencing. They all must steady each other after a devastating attack. And Ellis' conviction in laying down his life for the sake of nobleness is unfailingly steady. (How nerdy am I for analyzing my own writing?) Also, when I wrote the first half of this chapter, I hadn't really played L4D2 in ages, and after playing again, I realized that them going to New Orleans is canon. That was totally unintentional. xD I just wanted to give them a reason to pass through Slidell...


End file.
